


mornings

by sakon



Category: Ayatsuri Sakon | Puppet Master Sakon
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:41:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25833679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakon/pseuds/sakon
Summary: Instead, you end up watching him rest. He's a beautiful person, and you can’t help staring. Then, you admire your work. Distinct pinks linger on his thighs.Sometimes, you become undone.Zenkichi wakes up and checks the mail the morning after.
Relationships: Tachibana Sakon/Fujita Zenkichi





	mornings

Groggy-eyed, you wake up to him in the morning. He isn't much against your side, but you can feel him, his slender hands and lithely strong physique. Cuddling in the notoriously dry winter weather is one of the best ideas you ever had. You both smell like work, like passing prefectures, of all the things you'll see again together. Oddly, the scent of cherries hits you when you dip down, the odd sort of thing you notice when you press your head against his chest, going closer than you ever intended when you first met him. It's a strange sort of thing, and you don't understand how one person can be so interesting on something so trivial as smell. The tang of cherries and berries, ink you use to correct your photos, wood and oak, wax— it’s what you get when you come close to him, intending to whisper something to disturb his slumber, though it never ends that way. Instead, you end up watching him rest. He's a beautiful person, and you can’t help staring. Then, you admire your _work._ Distinct pinks linger on his thighs. 

Sometimes, you become undone. 

You dip in closer, feeling his hummingbird heartbeat in your ears, your own thundering in your chest, soothing classical music blasting like lightening in the backdrop of your apartment. Last night, you played it, trying to persuade him to rest. Other things happened, and well, you never got around to it. Hopefully his back doesn't bother him too much. 

Reminded of your apartment, you look away from him. You catch his black shirt on your kitchen counter — you don't know how it ended up there instead of the floor— then his shoes at your front door, more like one close and the other at the foot of your bed. Your shirt hangs off his body, the bulk cloaking him like a cape, and it makes you feel fonder than you did before. Love is a strange thing, a strong, complicated emotion; you know it when you look at him and want to bundle him in your warmest clothes and (sometimes) throttle him on cases. You know it when you want to shield him from the snow building on your windowsill, protecting him from the elements because it's Japan - even the winter gets humid as hell, even if it's the driest in years. You know it when you want to tug him into the snow, conflicting feelings aside, and make childish things with him: snow angels, snowmen, your hand prints in the snow and maybe blossom some tinier ones later on.

But the clock ticks. 

Eventually, you have to leave the confines of your bed. Time calls to you to move, to do anything but stay in it, but you still want to soak up the warmth of your heat running, knowing your bills are protesting and the electric is crying. More than that, you want to spend time memorizing the details of his body you never get to memorize in the normalcy of the day, when he's shy and reserved. Now, there's none of that. He's tired, occasionally mumbling when you move to adjust yourself, lashes brushing against his skin and soft skin buried into the plush of a pillow. After a moment of being sentimental and dwelling, you listen to yourself, feeling the bed creak and move. You step softly, toes smushing against the cold floor, but you hold in any jolts. After all, Sakon's asleep, and it's only to check the mail so you shouldn't rouse him from his slumber; after all, you can spend more time with him later.

Besides, Ukon would roast you alive for being so... you don't know what to call it, but Ukon calls it creepy. You don't mind that it's Ukon, more the fact that Sakon would be there. He's about to wake up, and you can just feel it. 

You step into the snow, slipping on a pair of slippers at your door. Your boxers barely hang off your hips, loose from tugging and all the things you want to savor another day. They're the kind of things you can't savor in public, so to speak. Rushing, you check the mailbox sitting on your door, dusting the thing covered in thick layers of fluffy snow, looking for an envelope or anything to prove your struggles aren’t in vain. Nothing. But that means you get to feel Sakon once more, and so you kick your shoes off, careful at not tracking in snow. 

Slipping back inside, you feel happy at the prospect of being in bed with him once more. Being new to a relationship causes such affection and cuddly feelings, but your relationship is by no means new. The honeymoon happiness is bound to sink so to say, but you're riding the tides happily. If it ends, you'll love him all the same - and man, it's been like this for years. 

A figure moves in front of you, and through the mass of blanket and leg and shirt, you can make out your boyfriend. He’s moved, the gust of air rushing from the front door waking him. Damn it, you forgot to close it, but if this equates to that? Well, the sight of Sakon pushes all thoughts away, so you can't even think to mind. Still in your shirt, bundled up in a blanket, he stands, silent and waiting for something. You don’t know, so you ask, and he just shrugs, tiny, and kisses you, barely lighting up. For him, it's a lot. Morning boldness, perhaps, but you don't care to dwell when you have indulgence. 

You kiss him once, then twice. Of course, you take more til' he's breathless and accutely, cutely awake and thoroughly pink, wide-eyed, and embarrassed. 

He smells like wood, distinctly so. You notice when he pulls away. Ukon’s always there, after all. You press a snow-dusted hand against his hand, bringing it up to your face, leaning into the contact. He rubs his eyes with the other hand, yawning before his stomach rumbles. It’s the morning, and it quite distinctly feels so.


End file.
